Master/Slave

I don’t remember how I ended up there (maybe it was my need for adventure, maybe it was my curiosity, or maybe it was the comment from my companion, “It’s fun to go because you feel like the prettiest one there. When I go, I feel thin.”), but I ended up visiting what I believe to be Memphis’s only leather bar on a dull night a few years ago.  It was exactly as I imagined: dark, smoky, loud, and dirty.  Immediately upon entering, I felt uneasy.  I clutched onto my virtue like an old woman clutching her purse in a ghetto bingo parlor.  The decadence that surrounded me heightened my defenses.  Everyone was prejudiciously suspect, and I was prepared to verbally repel any unwanted advances.  I wasn’t there to hook up with anyone, I just wanted to look pretty.

If my quest to this branch of gay culture taught me anything it’s that these “bears” love raunchy sex.  Not only was porn displayed on numerous TVs mounted around the bar, but people were actually having SEX in the treehouse on the patio…for anyone to see.  What would their mother’s think?! I hoped that this wasn’t their way of finding a meaningful relationship.

At the tail end of the night (no pun intended), I drank enough liquid courage to finally use the restroom. This fine establishment was equipped with two restrooms: one for the MASTER and one for the SLAVE. Being unfamiliar with the “leather daddy” culture, I was confused as which their social etiquette would require me to use. After examining both, I settled on the MASTER restroom since it had a stall with a door (albeit it only covered from mid-torso to the knees). 

Alone while straddling the toilet, a drunk, unshaven old man staggered in.  Startled by his sudden entrance, I turned my head.  It’s unfortunate that within that moment, I accidentally made eye contact. The old cooter staggered over, leaned against the saloon style doors that separated us, and slurred, “There’s just something about a handsome man peeing.”

I found myself in a rare moment of “speechless.”

I squeezed out the remainder of my bladder, snatched up my zipper, and ran from the bathroom.  Needless to say, I left as fast as I could say goodbye to my friend and have not visited that dark place since.  

What was  that drunk man’s expectation? Did he expect me to turn to him, weak at the knees and reply with a husky voice, “Wanna watch?” Has he used that line on someone else? In retrospect, I wish to have had the wherewith all to inquire as to his success rate in approaching men on the subject of golden showers. It would have made an interesting social study.  Maybe this tactic has worked for his before from a prey that enthusiastically replied, “And, honey, I’ve been drinking water ALL NIGHT.” The world is large enough to safely assume that somewhere there is somebody who is just dying to have an old man tell him he “loves to watch handsome men pee,” isn’t it?  If they ever met, they’d have hot (probably disgusting) sex, but I don’t want to go into that.  Just knowing that every freak has a potential companion comforts me.